Memories on a sunday afternoon
by MissImpatiens
Summary: Austria/Hungary songfic. Post-WW1. Austria remiscing about his past, and about Hungary. Oneshot.


_**A little oneshot songfic C: A few historic references, but not meant to be historical, so it probably sucks. Typed this up in one day- wanted to have it up as soon as possible (I'm sorry if it's bad). The song is "I see you, I see me" by Magic Numbers.**_

**_I do not own the characters, they are (c) Himaruya. The song (c) Magic Numbers, not me either ;D_**

**_Please enjoy!_**

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><p>He alone was sitting at the table in the dining hall. The cup with coffee standing near his hand, untouched, warmth long vanished. A piece of his crafty <em>torte<em> rested on a small plate, silver fork near. Everything was as still as if it were a painting, the only thing stirring was the man's form as he breathed evenly in and out.

His face was calm and collected. At least, it appeared so. At a closer look, he was sitting in a wheel chair, the coffee seemed watery and the _torte_ dry. The delicate, long-fingered hand attached to an arm covered with bruises and cuts, the other arm limp and useless in a carrying-cloth. He was there, sitting at a table with empty chairs, in an empty dining hall, in an empty house, looking out over the empty garden and empty lawn. And he felt quite as empty inside. He was alone.

_I never wanted to love you, but that's ok  
>I always knew that you'd leave me anyway<em>

One by one, they had left, alarmingly fast in the past 50 years. Everyone, except her, who had supported her in that empty war, that horrible gone-wrong rebellion. And now she was gone too. He sighed, telling himself it was the company, the _noise_ he missed, but he knew it was something else. His heart, not the chunk of land-mass it represented but his human-like body _heart_, was aching. His face twitched, sadness and rage showing, before settling back to a peaceful mirage it had been.

In the corner, half-covered by a cloth, stood a painting. It wasn't particularly big, but it was the image that caught his eyes. It was her, standing next to shady figures covered by the cloth. A dutiful, calm face, though the painter had captured the glow in her green eyes, her ebony eyebrows expressing the strength and character in her. He sighed. It should have been him who was standing there.

_But darling when I see you, I see me._

Some long-forgotten – to mortals, at least – men were standing behind her, wearing all a sash in the colours of his flag – _his _flag – and she alone showing a sense of pride for her own existence. He looked away from the painting. She had always been proud about herself and her heritage. Even when young. When he had been young, so many centuries ago, he had loved the outside, the alp wind tousling his hair. He loved to just sit there and play his flute, and watch the wild goats playfully running around, the birds singing a song he'd try to imitate on his flute. Yet he was not born for this, there were other duties, and he was put to fight, even from that age. And there was always _her_, though he had thought her to be a boy back then. Her, causing him to come back bruised and bloody.

_I asked the boys if they'd let me go out and play  
>They always said that you'd hurt me anyway<em>

And still, so many years later when she came to his house, when he saw her smile and laugh, lovingly stroking the horses snout and singing in her language as she cleaned, he longed to go back to that world, where he could have played the flute as she sung.

_But darling when I see you, I see me_

She had revolted. Never had she really like to be with him, under his rule, locked inside his enormous house. But she had revolted. And this once, he agreed with his ruler to have her back.

Not much later, both their leaders had agreed upon joining in affairs. In other words, he was unified with her, _she_ who loathed him and yet seemed to be soothed when in his house. So he played, he played to soothe her, to tame the wild mare inside her. But even though the war was fought, the scars remained. He, who had been a loving, peaceful boy once upon a time, had morphed into a cold, bitter being, with war in his eyes, a tool and a possession for the power-hungry.

_It's alright I never thought I'd fall in love again_

The cold, bitter him had warmed up a little to her smile, her hesitant smile, the first smile since she was locked in his house, as he told her he would fight for her. A hesitant smile and the words that it was most likely for himself, brought his feelings to conflict. Between all the other glaring, untrusting faces, her smile had been a ray of light.

_It's alright I look to you as my only friend_

Conflict and peace had always been their routine. When she had had enough of affairs, she would revolt. Break up the house, and try to leave. Then he would act, and keep her in, like a singing bird in a cage. Then he would remind her of why she was with him, that he was all that kept her safe, against the cruel world she was surrounded with.  
>The she would sing again, happy and sad songs, songs of home, of freedom. But she would smile that smile, and say that even though it was a cage, she was comforted with being safe.<p>

_It's alright I never thought that I could feel this something  
>Rising, rising in my veins<br>Looks like it's happened again_

The last years, those before the horrible, empty war, had been hollow as well. Being dutiful, seeing to his property, seeing more and more slip from his grasp, he would spend night after night sitting in his study, shut away from company. She would be there when he came out, glaring, accusing him silently. Going for long rides would not help. The bright flame had reduced to a barely gleaming coal. As he had seen happen with mortals so often.

_I never thought that you wanted for me to stay  
>So I left you with the girls that came your way<em>

Yet, after the war, the worst yet he had experienced, she had truly turned away from him. Often accused him of being wrong, of making it too big, of being spineless. The words stung. But she stayed nonetheless. He was clueless to _why_, but she stayed.

_I often thought that you'd be better off left alone  
>Why throw a circle round a man with broken bones<em>

His wheelchair squeaked, which momentary brought him out of his train of thoughts. No wonder she had left him, a spineless man, now truly spineless, with nothing left to please her, even the sound from the strings of the piano had ceased, his hands battered and broken.

Her eyes when she looked up, looked at him from across the table, empty, hollow, consumed eyes. Bruises and cuts, a walking stick she used when she left the room. Goodbye, it was.

_But darling when I see you, I see me_

Their last years had indeed been empty and meaningless, a political affair. Nothing had been exchanged between them, words could simply not be found. Whenever she would look out of the window, he would ask her what was on her mind to have such a curious look in her eyes, and she would simply reply him it was nothing. Then again, he rationed that he must have looked the same whenever she asked him that question. He never really told her either.

_You always looked like you had something else on your mind  
>But when I try to tell you, you'd tell me never mind<br>But darling when I see you, you see me_

Yet now his garden, his house, his dining room and his soul were empty. It could not have lasted between them, but now he was alone, and wished more than anything that she would come back, smile her special smile, stroke his bruised hands and sing for him. His singing bird had flown from his golden cage, finally, as it was supposed to be, and he was left with only memories of sweet song.

_I wanna tell you that I'll never love anyone else  
>You wanna tell me that you're better off by yourself<br>_

Austria looked out over the garden again. The coffee stirred as he picked up the saucer and cup, cradling the platter with the _torte_ in the other hand. Somehow, balancing the fine porcelain, he wheeled to the kitchen, and flushed away the coffee, threw away the cake. Shut away the painful memories. Then he wheeled to the guest room a few doors away; he could no longer reach the ornamented bedrooms on the higher levels. As he somehow managed to tilt himself on the small bed, one single tear left the corner of his eye. Angrily he swept it away, and closed his eyes to drift away on the memory of better times.

_And it looks like  
>I feel this something<br>Rising, rising in my veins  
>Looks like it's happened again.<em>

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><p><em>Historical notes: <em>

_References to: WW1 (quite obviously), the "marriage" of Austria and Hungary, in other words the Austro-Hungarian empire - 1867, several Hungarian revoltions, most notably the on from 1848, and small references to the Ottoman empire threatening Hungary._


End file.
